Ainos — Early April
The tavern stood a street back from the quay, close enough that the sounds of the port carried through the walls: creaking tackle, a donkey braying, rope under strain. Inside, smoke hung in the beams and caught in damp wool, and the floorboards were sticky with old wine.
Nestor Gregoras paused in the doorway and took stock of the room. Gattilusio men filled most of the tables, Italians and Greeks with wet boots, raised cups, and the rough laughter of men newly ashore and already spending coin. Farther in, a Roman table sat apart, helmets stacked nearby, cups kept close, shoulders turned just enough to watch the door. A few locals lingered by the fire, passing a jug between them and drinking without hurry.
He threaded between the benches toward the Roman table.
"Nestor."
Matteo sat nearest the aisle, half in shadow beside a smoking lamp and a jug. He rose just enough to mark the courtesy—beard trimmed, hair tied back, hands still clean despite the port—and touched the bench beside him.
"We meet again," he said.
"Under cleaner circumstances." Nestor raised two fingers to the others at the table and sat. The bench was sticky with old spills, but he ignored it.
Matteo poured him wine without asking.
"So. Any word on sailing? My crews are starting to sour with all this waiting."
"No change. If nothing comes down from the north in a few days, we sail. Until then, we wait and keep the fleet ready."
Matteo grunted and drank. "I passed your flagship. Those guns on her flank…" He gave a small smile. "I like our chances. There's more iron in this fleet than most islands see in a year."
Nestor drank more carefully this time. The local red was harsher than he liked and went too quickly to his head.
"Gallipoli has galleys," he said. "Thirty, by report. Fustas too."
"Turks at sea," Matteo said with contempt. "Pirates with banners. They'll try to come over the rail and make it a knife fight, but they've little cannon worth fearing. Once the first shots land among them, they'll scatter."
"That's good to hear. Then we keep the straits shut. No transports through."
Matteo glanced toward the shuttered window. "One thing to mind. A ship like that goes where the wind allows."
"In a calm," Nestor said, "we have the galleys."
Matteo drank and set down his cup. "A ship like that would have saved me trouble on the long runs. Egypt. Alexandria."
Nestor leaned in despite himself. "You sailed that far?"
"More than once. I worked guard for a Genoese merchant—spice, cloth, whatever paid. Cyprus too. Tripoli once. Then sickness ran through the Mamluk ports and trade died. Credit dried before the dead were cold. My patron went broke, so I took the Gattilusio's coin. Less pay, but easier sailing."
"What's Alexandria like?" Nestor asked.
Matteo gave a faint shrug. "Hot and crowded. You smell it before you see it—sweat, pepper, tar, fish. The harbor is always full. At dawn the city comes up pale behind the masts. Domes, towers, gulls everywhere."
For a moment Nestor forgot the smoke and cheap wine. "One day," he said, more quietly than he meant to, "I'd like to see it for myself."
"And Jerusalem?"
Matteo shook his head. "Never made that pilgrimage. I kept to the sea. Inland, a man can get trapped too easily."
He leaned closer. "Off Cyprus, a pirate galley caught us once. Low in the water, oars driving hard. We stove in one bank with a gun, and they still came on with knives out."
His fingers tightened once on the cup.
"My captain wanted to fight. I talked him into paying them off." He let out a breath. "That night I kept thinking about chains. Give it another hour and I'd have been stripped on a block with my teeth checked like stock."
Nestor looked down at his hands and imagined rope around his wrists. His cup trembled once before he steadied it.
Matteo let the silence sit, then moved on. "And your pay? Is it true the Emperor pays well, or is that just camp talk?"
"Enough," Nestor said. "And there is room to rise. His Majesty rewards men who make themselves useful."
Matteo nodded slowly. "He seems... capable. Men talk about those victories as if the world has turned." His gaze sharpened. He looked ready to say more.
The tavern door swung open hard enough to rattle the latch.
Cold air rushed in, pushing the hearth smoke sideways. Heads turned at once, even before the newcomer spoke; they had already heard the spurs, and the hard breathing of a man who had run to be first with news.
A young Genoan mercenary stood in the doorway, cheeks red and chest heaving.
"Riders!" he shouted. "Romans from the north. Prince Thomas is with them."
At once the room lurched into motion. Benches scraped. Men shoved past one another, their thirst for wine now turned toward rumor and orders.
Matteo was on his feet at once. "There's our wind," he said.
Nestor followed him out into the street.
Outside, the narrow lane was already filling as men pressed toward the quay. Lantern light shone on wet cobbles, and beyond the crowd, by the waterfront, horses stood steaming in the damp air.
There were perhaps fifteen riders, men stiff in the saddle from too many days on the road. Mud clung to the horses up to the fetlocks, and the riders' cloaks were dark with old rain and sweat.
Thomas Palaiologos sat at their head. Even in the failing light he carried himself with the easy authority of his house, but his left arm stayed close to his side, and when his horse shifted beneath him, he flinched before he could hide it.
Lieutenant Nikolas Kallergis rode beside him, watching the crowd with quick, measuring eyes. His gaze found Nestor at once. He lifted two fingers.
"Gregoras," he called. "The admiral. Take us to him. Now."
Nestor bowed once and turned toward the flagship, with Kallergis and the others following behind.
Later, night had fully settled, and the lanterns aboard the Katarina threw yellow light across the wet deck. The captain's cabin smelled of tar, ink, and warm wood. Maps lay spread across the table beneath a dagger and a brass weight. A lamp smoked beside them.
Admiral Laskaris stood with both hands braced on the table. He looked up as Thomas entered and gave him a short nod.
"Admiral."
"Prince Thomas. I confess I am surprised to see you here."
"Halil Pasha has moved east with his army," Thomas said. "Toward Constantinople."
A murmur passed through the officers and died at once when Laskaris looked up.
"He is leaving Edirne?" Laskaris asked.
"No. We put it under siege the day I left. General Andreas expects the walls to break fast once the guns are in place. The city is held by what was left behind."
Thomas took a sealed letter from inside his cloak and set it on the table. The wax had been smeared in the ride south.
"From His Majesty."
Laskaris broke the seal with his thumb and read in silence. When he finished, he set the letter down and began giving orders without raising his voice.
"We have work to do. All captains, make your ships ready. Kyreneia will take the coastal watch at first light. No one chases glory. Every sail is to be reported."
Then he turned to Nestor.
"Load the remaining stores. Count the powder again. I want numbers by midnight, and again before dawn." He tapped the map. "And tell Palamede's steward to prepare. We sail the day after tomorrow."
"Yes, Admiral."
Laskaris looked back to Thomas.
"We sail in two days, my prince. At dawn."
Thomas's jaw shifted as if he'd bitten something hard.
"Admiral," he said, more quietly, "I need a word."
Laskaris gave a single nod.
"Everyone out," he told the officers.
Boots thudded on the ladder. The cabin emptied, and once the last man had gone, the slow creak of the ship seemed louder than before.
"I didn't ride here only to deliver orders" Thomas said.
Laskaris waited.
"If they tighten the cordon around the City," Thomas said. "If they move her—" He stopped. Swallowed. The name stayed behind his teeth like blood. "I need a hand inside Galata. Inside the City. Before that happens."
Laskaris's expression shifted, but only slightly.
"God help us—if Halil reaches the City in strength," he said, low, "it won't be a garrison. It will be a cleansing. I have kin behind those walls as well."
"Then you understand why I cannot wait. I need to reach Galata as soon as possible."
"When will he arrive?"
"Any day. That is why I must sail now."
"My prince," Laskaris said, and there was steel beneath the courtesy, "to send a single ship through the straits now would be folly. The Ottomans know we are at Ainos. Their patrols have grown tighter these last days. One ship trying to slip through would draw every eye."
Thomas's hand closed around the back of a chair. The wood gave a small creak under his grip.
"Then we move tomorrow."
"Tomorrow we finish our preparations," Laskaris said. "The day after, we sail. The fleet goes together, or it does not go at all. Those are the Emperor's orders, and they are sound."
For a moment neither man spoke. The ship shifted with the tide. Somewhere overhead, a rope ran through a block and then fell still.
When Thomas finally turned away, he let out a breath that was almost a curse.
"We sail at dawn the day after tomorrow. When we reach Gallipoli, I'll continue straight to Galata. Pray to God I make it on time."
Dawn came cold, with mist hanging over the harbor. On the Katarina's high deck, Laskaris stood at the rail with his cloak drawn tight. Thomas waited a pace behind him, hood up, his left shoulder held close. Near the companionway, Nestor stood with folded papers tucked into his belt.
Across the water, the Gattilusio galleys were already under way, their oars rising and dipping in steady rhythm. Matteo moved along the benches, said a few words to his men, and raised a hand. His galley slid ahead. The Kyreneia took the channel first.
"Up," Laskaris said.
The anchor broke free and the chain ran. Canvas filled with the morning wind, and the Katarina began to move.
Ainos slid past on their left: warehouses dim in the grey light, smoke pressed low over the roofs, fishermen pausing in their work to watch them go. A few figures stood motionless on the quay.
The fleet settled into order. The Kyreneia led, with a second galley and the smaller vessels keeping station behind her. The four Gattilusio galleys spread along the flanks, while the Katarina followed under full canvas, heavy and towering, her gunports shut.
Once they cleared the river mouth, the water changed. The brown wash of the Maritsa fell away behind them, giving way to the colder blue of the open sea. Gulls trailed them for a time, then turned back.
Ahead, the coast narrowed toward the straits. On the horizon, the land thickened into the line of the Gallipoli peninsula, and somewhere beyond it men would already be watching the water for sails.